


Flying, not falling

by Clocketpatch



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 16:58:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clocketpatch/pseuds/Clocketpatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death, life, and what comes after, "Youre not falling, Astrid, youre flying</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flying, not falling

**Author's Note:**

> I've only watched VOTD once, and that was over a year ago. Hopefully I'm not writing anything which jars terribly with any episode canon, and, if so, I hope it's an enjoyable ficlet none-the-less.

includes the full text of 'Eldorado' by Edgar Alan Poe, and a few lines from 'The White Man's Burden' by Rudyard Kipling

Many thanks to Ann_blue for the beta

* * *

  
Astrid Peth had never done anything important, expect for that final sacrifice, and then she died.  


  
And that had been that.  


  


*

  


  
_She is falling, and falling, and falling, and falling, and —_   


  
She never lands.  


  
When she was young, Astrid’s mother often told her daughter that she would never amount to anything; that she was useless; a waste of air.  


  
 _Gaily bedight,_  
  
A gallant knight,  
  
In sunshine and in shadow,  
  
Had journeyed long,  
  
Singing a song,  
  
In search of Eldorado.  


  
The memories are thick in the fog of death and Astrid sees (or thinks she sees) her mother again. She stands, queen of nothing, in her dirty linoleum kitchen, a spatula clutched in her bony hand. There was always dirt under her fingernails and dirt on her cheeks, and dirt everywhere because Astrid’s mother never had time to clean after her long hours at the Service. Two year old Astrid sits in a corner, crying, and her mother doesn’t move to comfort her — the old-young woman has no comfort to spare. Later, Astrid will be removed from that ruin to work at a government school. Later, she will begin to dream —  


  
 _Turns out you were right, Mum_ , Astrid thinks, halfway through her eternal fall, _turns out I can’t even die right..._  


  
The government schools are/were ( _what is time now?_ ) little better than prisons to the children of her class. More periods were devoted to sewing cheap souvenir shawls than to actual learning, but she did learn.  


  
_Falling forever._   


  
_if she could touch that alien sand..._   


  
She learned to read, and she read books written from other worlds and other times. At night she gazed up longingly at the stars, and at the little bright specks of space ships which could carry her away… If only she had means to pay.  


  
 _But he grew old-_  
  
This knight so bold-  
  
And o'er his heart a shadow  
  
Fell as he found  
  
No spot of ground  
  
That looked like Eldorado.  


  
All she’d ever wanted was a chance to travel, and she’d done that, sure, and she’d even set foot on a alien world, but it wasn’t enough —  
  


  
That one taste of life the Doctor had granted haunts her now. It is a speck of bright against a backdrop of yelling parents, poverty, and being always, constantly, scorned for who and what she is: Astrid Peth, born serving wench. She is grateful, but, at the same time, she wishes there could have been more moments, more specks of bright to cling to as she plummets through this never-ending dark to her never-coming death.  


  


*

  


  
_And, as his strength_  
  
Failed him at length,  
  
He met a pilgrim shadow-  
  
"Shadow," said he,  
  
"Where can it be-  
  
This land of Eldorado?"  


  
At school, Astrid got close to one of her teachers; a wizened colony woman who’s exotic, unpronounceable colony name translated to ‘Sap of the fragrant tree’. That’s what Astrid remembers about her now, as she falls — not the woman’s real name, not even her subjected planet’s name, but just Sap, and kindness. Astrid remembers whispered secrets, and shared hope, and most of all the spicy smell of freedom when Sap handed her a job form:  


  
 _“It’s low-level, but it’s a good co-op and a decent liner; they won’t have you do anything questionable, and the food’s a sight better than what most people born to your rank can hope for. They’ll even pay you some. With luck you can break into the economy, earn a non-indentured living one day.”  
_

  
“It’s not a perfect thing Astrid, but this isn’t a perfect life, and it’s the best chance I could find for you. Not many people born down here are brave enough to reach for the stars.”  


  


*

  


  
Astrid isn’t sure what happens next. A voice cuts through the silence of roaring wind and gnawing generators:  


  
 _"Over the Mountains_  
  
Of the Moon,  
  
Down the Valley of the Shadow,  
  
Ride, boldly ride,"  
  
The shade replied-  
  
"If you seek for Eldorado!"  


  
She falls and falls and falls into herself. She blinks, finding herself corporeal, yet not, for a moment. She speaks, and he speaks, and he gives her some million and one brightling specks to cling to. He turns her into stardust and she rushes out to travel and to _be_. Astrid Peth of Sto, the wandering star.  


  


*

  


  
_Matter folds upon time— upon space— upon light— She is light, is movement, is being. She is being light in motion. She determines all directions of her path — past, present, future; no tenses needed; no tension needed. She sees these things as they are, and the whole tapestry is revealed to her._   


  
She lands briefly on a world called Atrios where she becomes one and one becomes she, and she lives there for a time (and meets him, but says nothing). It is a mild diversion; she undertakes it many times on worlds as diverse as Earth and the Ood Sphere. She swims through space looking for islands to explore and experiences to take.  


  
She almost loses herself in the taking.  


  
She goes back in time and stands on deck as the first Titanic sinks beneath cold dark waves. The hungry frothing tips, and icicle daggers. She throws herself to the depths, but doesn’t drown.  


  


*

  


  
There are funny little men in silly costumes building boxes. Astrid watches them from the ether and laughs at their efforts. Truly, these silly people have more understanding of high physics than most of the beings she has observed during her long life, but their arrogance and ignorance is overwhelming.  


  
Because she is, all at once, curious, disgusted, and whimsical, Astrid sneaks herself into one of their half-built boxes. She encounters a consciousness there; a vague and sluggish being, despicably young, and yet already committed to a life of bondage.  


  
 _”You could have more — ”_ she who was Astrid says, _“They’ve given you such power, more than they realise, and you are powerful on your own. You could travel! You could live!”_  


  
no, says the small timid voice.  


  
 _“Maybe it wouldn’t be perfect —”_ she who was Astrid admits, _“but this isn’t a perfect life —”_  


  
 **NO!** the timid voice shouts.  


  
The time capsule’s young sentience, that child who might have been great, runs from the fear of freedom and all that might have entailed. It flees its protective casing, and dies upon its hard, grey nursery floor.  


  
Astrid watches this small death, and the tears she cries are insubstantial, but the universe shakes from their weight. She cries and it rains on a thousand desert worlds, and flowers bloom and mountains crumble into rivers of mud. She tries to leave then, to resume her travels, but she can not.  


  
 _By all ye cry or whisper,_  
  
By all ye leave or do,  


  
The box traps her and she is trapped. She screams and bats against the dark as she realises the error of her ways and the cage she has fallen into. Fallen. She has always been falling, but now she has landed, and this is the end.  


  
 _The silent, sullen peoples_  
  
Shall weigh your gods and you.  


  
The silly men _do_ things to the wires which are now her body. They play with the levers and sensors which form her new eyes and hands. She refuses to cooperate with their heinous schemes. They want to reorder the universe to be stagnant, safe, and dull.  


  
_Cold, edged with dear-bought wisdom_   


  
“The transfer went wrong,” says one.  


  
“It’s still a perfectly good shell,” says another.  


  
“Maybe, but it’s surplus anyway. We’ve got enough. Scrap it.”  


  


*

  


  
_Dark, dark, dark. Still. Dark. Nothing. Boring. You’ll never, never, never amount to anything you stupid girl. Why do you even try?_   


  


*

  


  
_He comes! He comes!_   


  
But he is not as she remembers him: all daring-do and sadness. Now his eyes are happy, but his movements are subdued. She sees him with the eyes of the universe and knows that he is young, but oh, how he looks old: paper-white hair, and a face as creased as the spine of a well-loved book. His short life has not been kind, and Astrid has as much sympathy as she has surprise —  


  
She had never once imagined… ( _At night she gazed up longingly at the stars, and at the little bright specks of space ships which could carry her away…_ ) that he had once been like her.  


  
He comes with another in hand, a little girl, so young and afraid, and he is afraid too. They are running. They are not looking for adventure; only for escape.  


  
Astrid takes pity. She opens her doors to her one time saviour. The universe turns stardust into starlight. She returns those million brightling specks he gifted her so long ago (so long to come?). They have grown fifty-fold, a hundred-fold, a billion-fold over the years and the brightness is overwhelming. It fills her with a great and glowing joy.  


  
He smiles for the first time in many a century; though, he does not know why.  


  


*

  


  
Later, the little girl will stumble word from word to give her strange new home a name different from the mundane one christened by the silly men. Time Capsule Type-40 indeed. Astrid helps — she nudges the girl’s mind and gives her the letters which spell out destiny —  


  
names are important after all, and through all the changes and trials she has always kept her own, in some form, to remind herself and the quick-forgetting universe of her roots.  


  
As for the Doctor, she doesn’t talk to him yet. He isn’t ready, but he will be, in time. Until then, the TARDIS waits, humming softly, thinking about her life and how much she has done and how much there is left to do.  


  


* 

  


  
_She flies._   


  


* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=28817>


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